Hotel Magnifique(87)

She scoffed. “My soul’s desire is not fixing toilets.”

Over the past few days, I’d thought through everyone’s artéfact. What Alastair said made sense. “What if it’s not about toilets? You genuinely care about the people who work for you. I think your desire to always keep us together, to fix any of us who feel broken, manifests in your gears.”

Her mouth opened then shut, speechless for once. So I continued on with the rest of it until the moment I decided to find Béatrice here. I didn’t tell her about Margot. Bel had said he’d already tried and it made no difference. Still, I was curious. “What is it about this place that made you want to come here?”

With the flick of her finger, the steel butterflies soared from the pale purple wig up to the ceiling then descended in a column of steel, stacking neatly on her palm. Then a single screw untwisted itself from the top butterfly. Béatrice rolled it between her fingers. “I made all the butterflies myself, you know, adding a screw to each one. For a long time, I wanted to perform at the soirées and use them as a prop.”

“Perform?”

She shrugged. “Foolish as it was, I used to talk about it. I put together an act similar to the Illusioniste’s.” Her voice grew bitter. “Some saw it and called me Mechanique in mocking whispers.”

Yrsa called her that from time to time in the kitchens. And to her face.

Béatrice threaded her fingers through the dress fabrics. She tossed a gauzy piece in the air and watched it flutter down. “I wanted a dress to practice in, so I went to speak with a member of L’Entourage de Beauté. It was the first time I’d set foot in Salon de Beauté.” The edges of her mouth turned down. “And it did something to me.”

“What?”

“Nothing tangible, but I felt something strange—an emptiness at the sight of it. Here.” She tapped the center of her chest, at her heart. “I thought if I could visit the real Atelier Merveille, that emptiness might go away.”

“Has it?”

“No. To be honest, it feels worse right now than it ever has.”

Her words caused an ache in my throat. I wanted to say something to help her, but I knew there was nothing I could say that would change anything.

“Why am I even here?” Béatrice wiped her nose on a length of satin, then waved her hands. “Enough of this emotional nonsense. Tell me the rest.”

So I did. Her hands balled into fists when I ended on Bel’s finger. “I’m going to destroy the contracts,” I said.

“You just told me only Alastair can void them.”

“I’m not going to merely void them. I’m going to obliterate them.”

“I see,” she said, skeptical. “And how exactly will you manage that?”

Céleste didn’t have the answers I wanted, but she’d given me an idea. During the walk here, a tenuous plan formed.

Quickly, I relayed how it would all play out. Béatrice shook her head. “Too dangerous.”

“That’s the problem,” I said solemnly. “Even if we managed it, guests and staff could die, not to mention one of us. I couldn’t risk it with a hotel full of people.” I sank to the floor, wishing the thick carpet held all the world’s answers. “I was hoping you might know what to do.”

“Me?” Béatrice leaned back against the heaping pile of dresses. Fabric billowed out around her like puffs of candy-coated clouds. “You know, I always thought you’d make an excellent suminaire,” she said, sending her butterflies to the ceiling. “The stoic one who would dazzle crowds with her pigheadedness.”

“Are you listening? Alastair is going to kill Bel in less than three hours if I don’t turn myself in.”

I realized that after everything, this would be as far as I’d go. I thought of Bel’s face buried in my neck, his hands racing over my skin.

Then other images came to mind: Bel on the floor, dripping blood like Céleste, Zosa on that waxy table. My palms covered my eyes and there, right inside the famed dressing rooms of Atelier Merveille, I nearly fell apart. Until I heard Zosa flapping her wings at a whirring of gears.

I glared at Béatrice. “What are you doing?”

A steel cloud whizzed to the cage and opened the door. Zosa flew out, landing in front of me, hopping back and forth on spindly legs.

Béatrice reached over and attempted to ruffle Zosa’s feathers, but my sister pecked at her hand. “You’re not a very nice birdy, are you?”

No, my sister wasn’t nice when she was peeved. From the sharp curve of her beak, I imagined she could be much worse as a bird.

“Come here.” I tapped my shoulder. Zosa flew up and landed right at the spot I touched, nuzzling my ear.

“She listens to you,” Béatrice said.

She was right. I’d noticed a handful of strange little moments over the past day. I was no Frigga, but I felt like my sister was still there beneath the feathers and she could somehow understand me. “I think she still knows me, too. Lot of good it does me now.”

I ran a finger against Zosa’s neck and she cooed. For the first time in ages, I wished I could ask for her advice. My sister was clever; she’d come up with something good.

“I should have listened to you more often,” I said.